by Anne O'Brien
There was no much longed-for sign of my bearing a child for Henry. There would be no child of our love. It was a devastation that I had not admitted, even to myself, until now. I had not realised how much I had hoped for this. Jealousy of this poor, dead, unknown woman who had borne Henry’s son became an arrow-storm to strike me anew. Henry had another son, but not by me. My petitions to the Blessed Virgin had failed to receive her blessing. I remained barren.
Hoping for a distraction, I took the steps down into the gardens, so recently a scene of disharmony, so recently abandoned by both of us, where I now heard my daughters engaged in some exciting pursuits of their own. For a little while Marguerite and Blanche sat with me on the bright covers spread by their nursemaids, although it was an effort for me to concentrate on their chattering. It was a relief when they leapt to their feet and raced off along the path.
‘Edmund!’ Blanche called.
And I looked round. There was the child again with his nursemaid, the sun bringing to life the russets in his hair. In that moment of uncertainty, of cowardice, of blinding regret, I wished I did not have to face this small son of Henry’s who had kindled the fires of jealousy so strongly, simply by his existence. It had been my intention to keep my distance.
The boy escaped his nurse to run towards my daughters, calling their names. So they already knew each other. Watching as the girls drew him into a game, much as they would have accommodated their youngest brother, tolerant of his lack of skill at catching a ball, letting him match his steps to theirs when they ran, laughing with him, I considered that they had never talked to me of him. Perhaps they had merely accepted him, simply another occupant of this palace that they had come to call home. It made a bright picture, as the boy galloped across the grass, shrieking with delight, reminding me of my own son Richard, so that I could not watch, and turned my face away.
‘With your permission, my lady.’ It was Agnes, standing at my shoulder.
It was in my mind to dismiss her, but I did not. ‘Of course. Come and sit.’ Which she did, with some unease as if she feared a catechism from me. But what to ask? Did I not know enough. And yet…
‘When did the child come here?’
‘As an infant in arms, when his mother died. I was employed to care for him.’
Agnes looked over at her charge, with pride.
I too watched him, the boy’s laughter ringing out as he fell and rolled in the grass. ‘What will happen to him?’ I asked, without thinking.
‘My lord the King plans that he will go into the church when he is grown.’
It made good sense, an obvious road to promotion for a younger son. Or an illegitimate one. Perhaps Bishop Henry would take him under his wing. Bishop Henry knew all about the insecurities for illegitimate children, even those of royal blood. As a son of Duke John of Lancaster and Duchess Katherine, before the hallowed sanctity of their marriage and his own acceptance before the law, Bishop Henry’s future had been dependent solely on the recognition and generosity of his father.
The intricate game finally drew to a close, the girls returned breathlessly to me and Agnes took Edmund off. Then the boy came running back to me.
‘I am Edmund,’ he reminded me, in case I had forgot. A very familiar line appeared between his dark brows.
‘I remember you, Edmund.’ You might have been mine, I thought.
‘I did not say goodbye,’ he informed me carefully, as he had been instructed.
How not to smile? ‘No, you did not. But it didn’t matter.’
‘Agnes says that I must be polite. I am the King’s son.’
‘So you are.’ I rose and took him by the hand to lead him to where his nurse awaited him. Until he dragged against my arm, raising memories of my own small children in the past.
‘I have dropped my knight.’
Liquid anxiety bloomed in the eyes turned up to me for help. No, it was not Richard he reminded me of, but Henry. The russet-tinted hair, the straight nose, the darkly marked brows. As he grew the child’s jaw would firm with strength of purpose. I found that I was staring at him, a desperate longing invading my heart. Until Edmund squirmed to release his hand, so that, through that unexpected ripple of pain, I smiled down at him. Henry rejected my offers of support, but I could remove the sadness from his son’s face.
‘Then we must find our knight. He will not be far away.’ I led Edmund across the grass. ‘There he is.’
Edmund pounced in the long grass, before returning to slide his hand with utmost trust into mine.
‘Thank you, Lady Joanna.’
So he had remembered. Kneeling beside him, I dusted the debris from his hose where he had earlier fallen in the grass. And when Edmund placed a hand on my shoulder to steady himself, my heart beat with a single stroke of acceptance.
‘I have a hole in my knee,’ he confided, inspecting the tear with a deep frown, making my heart clench a little.
‘It is not a very big hole, Edmund. Agnes will mend it for you.’
The frown was displaced by an infectious beam. It had not been difficult to call him by his name after all; his smile was so thoroughly engaging. Almost I lifted him into my arms, as I would have lifted Richard, but I ruffled his already ruffled hair and sent him off.
As I watched him go, utterly disturbed, with the sun breaking into golden facets in my eyes, I saw the figure at the end of the garden and did not have to blink to recognise it. Of course. Henry had come to find me. He could no more allow this very personal shadow to hover about us without an attempt at healing any more than I. There was no hesitation in me. I walked towards him and we met where earlier we had exchanged such recriminations. Now the singing birds were witness to a softer meeting as I offered my hands, as I acknowledged one salient indisputable fact. Henry had chosen to share knowledge of this child with me. He had humbled himself, admitting his fault, handing power into my hands to forgive or denounce. I could do no less. It reduced my own pride to rubble.
‘I am sorry, Henry.’
‘No sorrier than I.’
Henry’s eyes were bright with understanding. ‘Can you accept him?’ was all he asked.
I tried to keep my reply light. ‘It would be impossible not to. My daughters treat him as a brother.’ Then I could be inconsequential no longer for the longing was heavy in me. ‘Forgive my intolerance.’ I swallowed. ‘Forgive my jealousy.’
‘I deserved your ire.’ He raised my hands, kissing my knuckles very gently. ‘I need to tell you that, although Edmund’s existence must seem like a betrayal to you, his begetting was not. To my discredit, he was not conceived out of love. My love is for you.’
My regard was steady on his. ‘Conceived out of a soldier’s excess energies in a time of war.’
‘Something like that…’
I touched my fingers to his lips. ‘There is no need to explain. I understand.’
As I did, as I must. It had no bearing on what we had together, on what we had become to each other, as I had at last accepted. As I must accept. The finches and the busy insects paid us no heed as Henry kissed my lips with reverence, brushing an inquisitive butterfly from my veil. But a reticence remained between us. Beneath the physical pleasure there was a hindrance against which we might still stumble if we did not have a care. I knew that there were thoughts in Henry’s mind that were not open to me, while I could not tell Henry of my desire for a child. Not yet. But one day I would when affairs of state pressed less onerously on his shoulders. If such an unlikely eventuality should ever occur.
*
Invasion had become the talk of the Court when, with the turn of the year, a French fleet was gathering at Harfleur. The news was enough to spur Henry into action. Since he had no money to ready an army or a fleet, a brisk round of royal castles and defences in the south became a thing of urgency to ensure that they were strong enough to repulse any landing. Despite our recent reconciliation, despite our soft words and rapprochement over the existence of Edmund, this would prove to be an emot
ionally charged farewell.
I had taken up my position on the steps leading down into the inner courtyard, resplendent in velvet and fur and embroidered gloves against the grip of January cold. The royal escort was present, mounted and heraldically blazing, banners and pennons making a brave display, but Henry was not. Minutes passed. When Henry still put in no appearance, I walked across to Lord Thomas de Camoys and John Beaufort, where we were soon to be joined by Humphrey who, at fifteen and sullen, was ordered to remain behind. I was sympathetic to his adolescent restlessness. I too, to my chagrin, was not wanted.
‘I would like to accompany you,’ I had said, walking with Henry to Mass on the day before he would leave, seeing no real reason why I should not.
‘It would be more politic for you to remain here, as things stand.’
Henry was staring straight ahead. Familiar exasperation shivered my veiling.
‘How do things stand?’
‘On the cusp of invasion. I am sorry, Joanna, but it would be better if you did not ride into one of our ports with the invading force looming on the horizon.’
It was not my physical security that concerned him. It was the fact that Breton ships were joining the French attack against England. Henry and I might be reconciled as lovers, but events across the sea were conspiring against me, and I was no closer to winning a place at Henry’s side in affairs of state. I bit down on a sharp reply, but only momentarily.
‘Do you still not trust me, Henry, not to pass state secrets to my son the Duke?’
‘I trust you. The English in the path of the Breton invaders intent on pillage and destruction might consider that they have cause to be undecided.’ He was even brisker than usual.
‘I have done nothing to give reason for their suspicions.’
‘You don’t have to do anything. Your association is enough.’
Neither one of us was pleased with the other. My hand closed on the hardest object I had, the reliquary pinned to my bodice, one of Henry’s gifts on the occasion of our marriage, and gripped it until my fingers ached. There was no reasoning with him. I might consider our love to be the single shimmeringly brilliant gem in my jewel coffer, but there were so many other treasures capable of adding to the whole sparkling effect. If Henry would only accept my talents and my strength, what a superbly shining crown we would make for England.
‘You are a stubborn man, Henry.’
‘While you, my love, are deliberately provocative. It will be better if you remain here where you will be safe.’ I looked back, lips parted, as I began to climb the spiral stair ahead of him, prepared to ask him if he truly believed me to be under threat, but at the top he took my arm to draw me precipitately into the chapel. ‘If you wish to be of help, pray for a fast peace negotiation between our disparate families.’
‘Of course. Do I not spend my life in so petitioning the Blessed Virgin?’
‘Then the Lady will doubtless be receptive to any request you might make.’
I chose not to reply to so acid a response, but here I was to witness Henry’s departure, because to absent myself in a fit of pique would have been discourteous. My smile for public consumption was rigidly bright, my stance uncompromising as the perfect English consort.
There was Henry’s favourite horse, one of Lancaster breeding, chafing now at the bit. Once, in the early days of our love, Henry had compared the colour of my hair to its satin sheen. Now saddled, bridled, a cloak was thrown across the whole to cover the beast from withers to tail, the gilded stitching brighter than the wintry sun. It kept my eye. Henry might be ostentatious, but the cloak was too grandly formal for this rapid gallop round royal defences. Henry would surely not wear it. At the animal’s head was Elmyn Leget, one of Henry’s most capable squires, together with his head ostler.
Where was Henry?
There he was, loping down the steps, Math bounding to greet him with noisy joy. Striding across the courtyard, Henry handed a fistful of documents to one squire to pack into the travelling coffers, whilst seizing felt cap and gloves from another, and nodding to the squire who held the horse’s reins, acknowledging his brother John who strolled over towards him. Immediately, with a bow and a flourish, Elmyn stripped off the cloak, folding it over his arm, and the ostler ran a soft leather cloth, which had been tucked in his belt, over the glossy surface of the saddle. Usual enough I supposed, until, after a final all-encompassing swipe of the leather, the ostler buried his nose in the cloth to sniff loudly. He tested the surface of the saddle with his thumb, head tilted. And for that moment it seemed that every eye in the courtyard was on him, including mine. Including Henry’s.
We waited.
With a saturnine grimace the ostler addressed Henry who clapped him on his shoulder. A coin exchanged hands. Sweat gleamed on the horse’s coat. The entourage returned to its own affairs, and Henry mounted. It was as if it had been done many times before. A ritual. But enough to catch my interest.
The cloak was carefully folded and packed into one of the wagons.
At this point in the proceedings, Henry deigned to notice me. He raised his hand in recognition. And I reciprocated as he manoeuvred his horse towards the steps where I had taken refuge out of the way of the general mêlée.
‘God go with you, my lord.’ My voice was clear and strong. My smile perfect as I presented my hand.
‘And with you, my lady.’
Henry raised my hand to his lips. Courteous, attentive, but his stare was inimical, his hands already gloved so that the touch was impersonal, his lips a bare skim before I was released. I was no longer smiling.
‘When do you return?’
‘By the end of the month.’
‘I will look for you, my lord.’
‘I will send a courier, to keep you informed of where I will be.’
‘I will be delighted to know.’ How hard it was to keep the edge from my replies. ‘God Speed. I will petition the Blessed Virgin to smile on you.’
‘Which is more than you do, Madam.’
Henry bowed, signalled his escort to precede him, snapped his fingers to the hound and drew alongside Elmyn and his brother without a backward glance.
All very neatly done. Exactly as I had wished, apart from that final, painful little stab. I wished my heart did not feel as if it were crushed by a heavy slab of marble. It was as if we were hostile forces, withdrawing after a failure to negotiate suitable terms, only to re-engage at some future date. It would not hurt if I did not love him so much.
I turned to go, for it was in my mind to return to my accommodations before Henry had ridden through the gates, ashamed that I should be so churlish, but I was past making excuses to myself or to Henry. Instead, recalling what had taken my interest, I gripped Lord Thomas’s sleeve before he could mount and follow.
‘Explain the ostler and the saddle to me. Is it an English ritual?’
Lord Thomas might have stifled a sigh. ‘No, Madam. It is not of long standing. But it has been thought to be a necessity.’
‘Why?’
A pause. ‘A matter of security, my lady.’
‘And how would that be?’
This was making no sense. Lord Thomas hesitated again.
‘Tell me,’ I demanded.
‘Because there was an attempt on my father’s life,’ Humphrey announced.
My eyes flew to his. Then to Lord Thomas, who picked up the tale, since there was no help for it.
‘It was before your marriage, in the first year of this reign. There is no need for concern, Madam. As you see, we have taken precautions.’ Lord Thomas fidgeted with his bridle as if wished he were gone. ‘It was the matter of a poisoned saddle, the leather impregnated with a substance that would have killed the King in great agony if he had ridden ten miles.’
‘What was it?’ I asked.
Lord Thomas shrugged his ignorance. ‘Fortunately it had a harsh aroma that pervaded the smell of horse and leather and so was discovered. We make sure there is no possibility of a repeat per
formance. As for the substance used…’
But I knew what it was. There in the sunlit courtyard I considered my knowledge of the poisons to hand in any well-stocked garden. Witches’ herbs, all of them, with potent uses against an enemy. Henbane, to call up evil spirits. Black Hellebore to rouse a violent frenzy in the most well-mannered man. Belladona, the Deadly Nightshade, bringing forgetfulness and death. And then Monkshood. Wolf’s Bane. This was undoubtedly what the assassin had used, a paste from the deadly Wolf’s Bane, for indeed it was deadly, rapidly absorbed through the skin, whether contact with seeds or stem or root. Whoever had applied it to the saddle had not intended Henry to live long. It was what I would have chosen if I had wanted a man dead yet keeping the hand of death secret.
‘I did not know of this attempt,’ I said.
‘He would not tell you. He would not worry you.’
‘There was also the metal contraption that was secreted into my father’s bed to spear his vitals,’ added Humphrey with some relish. ‘But we think that wasn’t true. Just a rumour.’
‘And what did your father say to this metal contraption that might only be a rumour?’ I asked, by now thoroughly jolted.
‘That it was none of my affair and I must hold my tongue,’ Humphrey said.
‘Some fear-mongering by those who cry “King Richard is Alive” and would drive the kingdom to destruction by so doing,’ said Lord Thomas to dampen Humphrey’s ardour and reassure me. By now I could not mask my horror.
‘And then there was…’ Humphrey began until Lord Thomas choked it off with a hand heavy on the boy’s shoulder. But it was all I needed.
‘How many attempts have there been on his life?’ I demanded. ‘How many attempts which Henry has seen fit to hide from me?’
‘Apart from in battle?’ Lord Thomas was calculating rapidly now that the cat was out of the bag. ‘There was the one at Epiphany—in the year that he took the throne…’
‘I know of that…’
‘Don’t forget the Countess of Oxford’s plot to invite a French invasion and bring back Richard.’ Humphrey’s sullen demeanour had completely dissipated.